


Summer Session, or: That Time Rahm Emanuel Tried To Poison Arthur with E. coli

by rapacityinblue



Series: Inception Lawyer AU [3]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Crack, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-22
Updated: 2012-06-22
Packaged: 2017-11-08 08:03:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/441007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rapacityinblue/pseuds/rapacityinblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur and Eames visit the beach, and somehow end up making Important Life Decisions based on a chance encounter with some free-floating bacteria.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Summer Session, or: That Time Rahm Emanuel Tried To Poison Arthur with E. coli

**Author's Note:**

> I have a confession to make. I don’t usually like AU fic. 
> 
> That’s not to say I _dislike_ it, it just happens not to be my cup of tea. Until I stumbled upon Inception fandom. _Why is Inception AU fic so good?_
> 
> Needless to say, after reading hundreds of thousands of words of lawyer!, newspaper!, coffee shop! and even yoga!au, this universe took root in my head. Thanks to you lovely people (and the crazy-assed town I come from) it will not go away. Here we are a year later, and I’m writing AU sickfic. So what I’m trying to say is: thank you. (Also, that I draw the line at blanketfic.) 
> 
> Seriously, thank you for your comments and kudos. Thank you if all you did was read. Here’s the threequel I swore I’d never write. ~~And there’s going to be another one, because if I don’t use Legal Ethics as a title for this verse it will be a tragedy.~~
> 
> By the way. Yes, Lake Michigan really is teaming with E. Coli. Yes, this really is in spite of the Chicago River flowing backwards (nice job, ASCE.) And yes, as of May 25th, 2012, they really don’t close the beaches no matter how polluted they are. Chicago. Gotta love it.

Memorial Day weekend is, traditionally (legally) when Chicago beaches open for the season. Of course, Chicago as a city has a somewhat flexible view of legality. It’s what drew Eames here in the first place. And on this, even Arthur, stick in the mud, “Eames, I'm an officer of the courts”, “You can't give me a stolen Lautrec for my birthday” Arthur agrees: Chicagoans have a God given right to lake access year-round. Sub zero temperatures and erosion fences be damned.

And Arthur loves the beach. Loved the beach. Possibly past tense, now, because it’s May 26th, 2012, and Arthur is vomiting into the very small toilet of his very small apartment. Eames can explain why, but you’ll have to pardon him as he veers into flashback. 

Arthur loves the beach. Eames learned this when Arthur made Eames go with him for the first time. In December. It was about 65 degrees outside, but just above freezing in the water, where there was a rip-current warning. Arthur wore obscenely high shorts, and Eames got to watch him actually jump a police barricade to get down to the sand. _They weren't the only people there._ City of madmen, he swore.

After that, Eames was looking forward to a long summer of Arthur wearing practically nothing and needing sunscreen rubbed on his back. And shoulders. And inner thighs, maybe, just to be cautious, he’s so terribly fair from being stuck in with his books all day. True to Arthur’s style, they planned their assault on Chicago’s eighteen miles of lakefront with a map and a red marker. 

“Eames,” Arthur’d said, looking quite stern and only a little ridiculous as he drew two thick, horizontal lines on the map, one at Roosevelt and the other up at Foster. “This is the death zone. This is where you go to die, most likely smothered by sand, buried there by marauding toddlers. No.”

“But this one’s so close to your apartment,” Eames protested, pointing to Montrose. That Arthur has an apartment of his own, that they actually don’t live together, is something he’s worked hard to put out of his mind the last few months, and of course they’re there now -- but that’s getting ahead of the story.

A few weeks after their discussion with the map, Arthur announced that he wouldn’t be swimming at all this summer. It was sudden, and unexpected, and completely destroyed every plan Eames had for the season. He’d already spent weeks convincing Arthur to accompany him to Montrose beach for opening weekend (never mind it had been in the nineties the week before and they’d made their way south at Arthur’s insistence, to a little beach hidden behind the Adler Planetarium that Eames hadn’t known existed). It was Memorial Day weekend, they were obligated to go to Chicago’s largest beach! They were Chicagoans!

“I’m a Chicagoan,” Arthur had said. “You’re a pain in the ass.”

Arthur had said, “I’m not swimming.”

“At least tell me why, love.” If his hopes and dreams for a real Chicago life were going to be dashed, Eames hoped that at least his lover had carefully thought out his actions and their consequences.

Arthur said, “E. coli.” When Eames looked blank, he’d explained.

It’s worth noting that Eames hadn’t been in the city the summer before; he’d been quietly deported. (See: Illegal Representation.) Not that he’s holding a grudge against any _specific_ lawyers who’d dropped his case and dropped their firm to go ‘do good’ at the State’s Attorney’s office. (What a ridiculous idea.) Nevertheless, he’d been in Russia, and so he’d missed the slew of beach closings, missed the slow and antiquated system by which Chicago had tested the water at its various beaches to be absolutely sure that it was safe for swimmers.

Arthur, darling that he was, liked slow and antiquated. He thought it was cautious. Eames thought it was silly, and set about convincing Arthur so. “Look, darling, they’ve improved the system dramatically. You can text them for bacterial counts now.”

“Projected counts.” Arthur with a bee up his ass was, _is_ , near impossible to move.

“It’s perfectly safe,” Eames had said.

He remembers saying it, and he knows that when Arthur remembers, too, he will be in a world of trouble. A large and painful world of trouble. Thank goodness Arthur is much too busy emptying the contents of his stomach -- again -- to rail against Eames.

The main rationale for choosing Montrose Beach (beside its size -- Eames _did_ appreciate grandeur) was its proximity to Arthur’s apartment. Arthur’s small, mostly empty shoebox off the red line. Eames has been here only a handful of times, usually to drop Arthur off or pick him off. It’s almost too small for two people to occupy at once -- unless, of course, one of the can’t make it more than a few steps from the toilet.

As it happens, given the size of Arthur’s place, “a few steps from the toilet” is anywhere in the unit. 

“I’m going to kill you,” Arthur says. Eames takes it as his cue to re-enter the washroom.

He takes a specific delight in seeing Arthur disheveled, it’s true, but not like this. Arthur’s skin is unusually pale, his forehead clammy in contrast to his dried lips. Mutely, Eames holds out a bottle of disturbingly pink chalk.

Arthur shakes his head, waving the proffered medicine away with one hand. “It’ll slow my digestion and just let more of the toxin into my system,” he says, with a glare.

“You did not contract E. coli swimming in Lake Michigan.” Eames rolls his eyes heavenward, as if asking for guidance. Or, perhaps, patience. Or, perhaps, that Lichtenstein’s _Bedroom at Arles_ is part of the exhibition the Art Institute is featuring, even though it would never fit in with the rest of his collection. He does so love work informed by other work, and -- 

Sick Arthur. He focuses.

“You tried to kill me,” Arthur croaks.

Eames hoists an arm under Arthur’s shoulders and does himself a credit by not flinching away from his (quite possibly infectious) breath. “It’s the flu, darling.” A few steps, and he deposits Arthur on the bed rather gracelessly. Tucks the covers around Arthur’s legs mostly to trap him there, in case he tries to attack. The bed is really too small for both of them, anyway, it’s a twin, and Eames is not a petite gentleman.

“It’s not the flu,” Arthur says. His voice is rough in a way that makes Eames’s stomach twist, not with a sympathetic urge to hurl his own stomach. Just with sympathy. “I probably have an ulcer and the bugs will get into my bloodstream and poison me. You’re going to have to give me a kidney.”

“You may have my kidney,” Eames assures him with a fond pat on the head. In a strange way, he feels much better. Obviously, delirium has set in now.

“You’d better give me a kidney. You tried to kill me,” Arthur repeats. “You, and Rahm Emanuel.”

For as long as Eames can remember, Arthur has fancied himself an enmity with the former White House Chief of Staff. Eames wasn’t around prior to Emanuel’s mayoral campaign to know just how far back this gentleman’s disagreement went, or really, what it’s about. As far as he knows, the two have never met. He gives a tested, safe response. “You’re right. The man’s raving. You should start a letter writing campaign.”

There’s a moment where he thinks maybe it isn’t enough, but after a moment, Arthur takes a tentative sip of water. His eyes roll back into his pasty-skinned head and he more or less passes out. 

Here’s the thing. Eames isn’t very good at this. It’s not one of his skills. He does have skills. For instance, he’s a dab hand with a paintbrush (or at least, that’s what the arrest warrants say.) He has an excellent eye for color and design. Let’s not mince words about it, he’s incredibly attractive. His skills are a lover are unsurpassed (again, he’ll happily provide references). 

But _nursing._ It’s not really a skill one picks up in life the way poker (cheating at poker) is. He’s fairly sure he should put a damp cloth on Arthur’s brow, and he’s positive that that cloth should be either warm or cool. He’s just not sure _which._ And he’d tried, for a few minutes earlier, to rub soothingly along Arthur’s back or hold back his hair, but the truth was, the sight of a person heaving their guts out just wasn’t that attractive. And anyway, Arthur had eventually snapped at him to _get out now_ , so he’d clearly failed there too. 

_Now_ , he’s fairly certain he shouldn’t be taking advantage of Arthur’s unconscious state to poke through his things, but he’s just so incredibly bad at this. 

It’s not like there’s that much to poke through. Arthur’s rental, as described before, is small. The walls are the harsh, unfortunate white that comes with a leased flat. The carpet can only be described as utilitarian. It’s all very neat and squared away, tight corners with no dust. All very Arthur. 

But Arthur hasn’t spent much time here in the last few months. That’s why Eames’s mess has slowly been tidied away before housekeeping gets there and his shelves are filling up with books. Well, Eames sees _why_ Arthur would prefer to spend his evenings and weekends in their hotel suite. It’s certainly nicer looking than this. 

The one thing that saves the apartment is Arthur’s taste in art. Arthur’s taste in art is terrible. He has this love affair with modernists and post-modernists and expressionists that Eames will never understand. He’s lived in London, he doesn’t need the constant reminder of the devastation from two wars. But Arthur -- he’d rather spend an afternoon at the MCA than the Institute, and _that_ is a tragedy. Or it would be, if Arthur ever spent an afternoon anywhere other than work or Starbucks. Regardless, the Modern Wing at the Art Institute has probably saved their relationship. They’re going to have their wedding reception in the gardens, a fact which Eames will inform Arthur of at the proper time. No need to get ahead of himself.

But yes, Arthur’s taste. Awful or not, at least he has it. If Eames has to see one more cheap print of Water Lilies hung in a tacky poster frame, he might just scream. Working at Fischer, Fischer, Browning, and Saito had given Arthur enough money to invest in actual oil replicas, and while they’re horrid, wrenching things that Eames would never let into the presence of his own lovelies, they are, at least, classifiable as art.

There’s a small one over the kitchenette (calling it a kitchenette was generous; Eames would call it a hot plate.) It’s a sketch of a Matisse, about a quarter scale of the actual painting, something he’d painted in 1914. It’s about fifty years older than Arthur’s usual tastes, and the real one hangs in the Museum of Modern Art in New York. Eames knows all this because he drew the sketch. 

He’d done it on a trip they took together and Arthur had confiscated it, and his charcoal, and told him very sternly, “You will not steal anything and ruin my trip.” In truth, he hadn’t wanted to steal anything, really. It was just a nice painting and he wanted a little souvenir to bring home. He’d assumed Arthur had thrown it away, along with the scale model Statue of Liberty he’d insisted on buying, just to watch Arthur’s reaction. 

Lady Liberty is well and truly gone, but the sketch is still here. Arthur’s gone and hung it above his fridge. All of a sudden, Eames is struck by the very contradictory urge to climb into the bed, no matter how small it is, but the image of himself in Arthur’s position (that is, bent over the toilet) is enough to hold him back. So instead, he continues his explorations. 

Arthur is, of course, a tidy person. He’s the type that cleans to alleviate stress. But for the first time Eames is noticing that the room is not only neat, it’s empty. Some of the books from that bookshelf, he’s sure, migrated with Arthur to the Wit, because Arthur is always throwing some heavy tome at his head. And Arthur probably doesn’t collect nick-nacks, but Eames is sure there were photographs here before. Like the one of Arthur and Mal in their graduation robes, or Arthur and Dom at the latter’s second marriage. 

The commencement photo is next to the bed under Arthur’s favorite Whistler. The shot of him as best man is on the mantle, Eames thinks. 

There’s only one pillow on the bed, because Arthur’s allergic to down, so he keeps a fiberfill at Eames’s. There’s no shampoo in the shower, nor paperwork on the desk. All there is, Eames realizes, is empty furniture, toilet paper, and ugly artwork on the walls. 

He’s been pressing for Arthur to move in for months. This is not one of those moments where he wakes up and suddenly realizes they already live together, like happens in romances and dramas. Arthur bunks over most nights and the only thing preventing them from making it official is _Arthur’s_ insistence that he maintain some privacy. What the photo on _their_ mantle doesn’t show is that Eames was his date to that wedding. In all the photos remaining in the near-empty house, there isn’t a single one of Eames. Just a half finished sketch that Arthur -- _Arthur--_ \-- had pilfered! 

He stalks back across the room, past the empty bookshelves, and pokes Arthur in the shoulder. Hard. Watches as he jerks awake. 

“Where’s all your stuff?” Eames demands, crossing his arms. Arthur blinked up at him with dull eyes. 

“Huh?” he manages.

“Brilliant. If you’re that eloquent in court, I see why your clients keep getting convicted.” While Arthur blinks and tries to sort himself out, Eames stands, brushing non-existent dust off his legs. As if Arthur would allow to dust in his halfway vacated closet of an apartment. “Never mind. Go back to sleep, I’m heading out.” 

The door slams most satisfyingly after him. 

Eames doesn’t exactly know where he’s intending to go. He’s sure as hell not moving the car, not after what it took to find a parking space, so he stalks down the street to the convenience store. It’s a Walmart, the first of its kind to open within the city limits, and due to some ridiculous legal dispute it only sells groceries and cigarettes. Arthur hates it when he smokes, and so he decides on impulse to buy the latter. 

As the third is burning down to an ember, he begins to feel more settled. Settled enough that, instead of lighting up the next, he snubs out the butt and turns on his heel, going back into the store. He emerges a moment later with plastic bags in each hand, and begins to make his way back down the street. 

Arthur is awake when he gets back, and sitting up in bed, his knees tenting the covers up. He’s still pale, but he raises an eyebrow as Eames re-enters. 

“Your color’s better,” Eames lies, hefting the bags. “I brought gatorade.”

Arthur takes the bottle he’s offered and twists it open, grimaces at the taste. The things they do in the name of hydration. “Thank you,” Arthur says. He’s obviously not going to bring up Eames’s “episode,” nor the fact that what little possessions remain in the apartment have clearly been shuffled through. Eames isn’t going to bring it up either, he just sits and stares at Arthur, so finally, Arthur says, “Most of my stuff is at Ariadne’s.” 

“Dom’s house?” Eames can’t quite hide his surprise that Arthur would put anything he owned where small children could grab it. 

“No, her condo. She’s keeping it until the market flips. She said I could store some stuff there,” Arthur says evenly. 

That explains some of it, but not nearly enough. “Why?” Eames pushes. 

“Because my lease is up in June.”

Of course, Eame’s living accommodations may be unconventional, but he is aware that for most individuals, leases do not continue indefinitely. “So you’re looking for a new place, then.”

“I guess, if you prefer.” Arthur is incredibly _cute_ when he’s perplexed. There’s no other way to say it. Again, despite his annoyance, Eames finds himself battling a sudden onslaught of affection. “I can always crash at Ariadne’s condo. She actually offered me the place, just to make sure it’s not flooded or something.” 

“You’re not looking for a place?” A fundamental part of this conversation has been lost, Eames thinks. Something that both of them are working at, but neither is saying, and one or both of them possibly has wrong. 

“Why?” Arthur forces down another swallow of purple liquid, shrugging his shoulders. “I’m just wasting money on a place I never go.” His eyes flicker to Eames’s face for a moment, and he adds casually, as if it means nothing, “I can, if you want.” 

Obviously it means a great deal to him: Arthur is so rarely uncertain, no matter how he tries to pass it off. “Well, you should!” Eames crosses his arms over his chest and goes for the weak spot, ignoring the evident disappointment on Arthur’s face. “I said you should move in, and you said no! And you’ve already moved all your things somewhere else.” 

“You live in a hotel,” Arthur says. “Eames, there isn’t any room for my things. And I practically live with you already. Do you know how long it’s been since I spent the night here? Four months. That’s almost three thousand dollars of rent! And besides, you asked me to hold the room for you when you went back to London. That was six weeks I lived there alone!” 

“Don’t remind me. Those pay-per-view charges were murder.” 

“Those were _research_ ,” Arthur says fiercely. “Anyway, I paid for those, and now I don’t have anywhere to live.” 

“Well, you should have thought of that when you said you didn’t want to live together,” Eames says. 

“Well, you shouldn’t make offers you don’t want people to take you up on.” Arthur’s arms are crossed now, too. It’s a standoff. “I’m moving in with you.” 

“You can’t. I won’t let you. I’ll have them bar you from the building.” 

“Security likes me. All you ever do is call them for a ride when you’re drunk. And they unlock the door for me all the time,” Arthur says. 

“Well, I’ll tell them that you tried to bring your godawful taste in artwork into my sacred space and you can’t come in anymore. I’ll tell them that we broke up.” 

As soon as Eames says the words, he knows they were wrong. Arthur, who, when angry, usually puffs up and hisses like a cat, just looks small and lost in the middle of the bed, buffeted in by blankets. He says, “I’m leaving my ugly artwork anyway,” and then sort of deflates when he asks, “Are we breaking up?” 

“No, we’re not breaking up!” It’s all Eames can do not to shout it. Instead, the sudden expression of energy translates into him sitting -- more of a controlled fall, really -- on the bed next to Arthur. He’s still yelling when he says, “You managed two thirds of a move without telling me.” 

“It didn’t seem like there was anything to talk about. You said I should move in.” 

“And you said no.” Circles within circles. Dots instead of broad strokes. Step back to see the full meaning.

“Because my clothes are there! I have a key and a toothbrush. You had a desk moved into the living room for me, Eames. Why are we arguing about a label for something that already happened?” 

Why, indeed? Eames struggles for a few moments, trying to come up with an answer that isn’t, ‘because you said you wouldn’t.’ That sounds pathetic, even to him. Maybe not pathetic, but _plaintive_ and a little bit like a toddler insisting ‘but you said yes first!’. 

Finally, he says, “Because this isn’t something that just happens when it’s inconvenient for you to renew your lease, Arthur. It’s a decision we make together. You don’t get to decide there’s no room in my life for you and chuck whatever doesn’t fit. We decide together and maybe I want your ugly paintings.” 

“Okay,” Arthur says. 

Nothing with Arthur is this easy. Eames has learned to be suspicious of any concession that isn’t hard fought with lots of screaming and lots of conciliatory makeup sex.

“Catch,” Eames says, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“No catch.” Arthur closes his eyes. “I’m too tired for catches. Maybe after I sleep.” 

Eames considers it for a moment, then shrugs. “Square deal.” Because he has to say it, because there’s no way Arthur can’t know it, he adds, “I can make room for you.” 

Arthur is a remarkably skilled young man. He can roll his eyes without even opening them. Eames hears the commentary without him having to say it, and Arthur is right. He lives in a hotel. He doesn’t need furniture. He doesn’t need kitchen supplies. He doesn’t need art -- well, at least, not Arthur’s art.  
Maybe, he realizes, he can’t make room. Not even for Arthur. In his own way, Eames has defined a space for himself as small and cramped as this crappy efficiency studio.

“You should keep the piece in your kitchen,” he says. 

Arthur opens his eyes. “That’s your work, Eames,” he says, his voice heavy and wry. Can’t get a thing by his Arthur. 

“I’m particularly fond of the artist,” Eames agrees in a tone to match. More resigned than anything, he says, “We’ll speak with one of those apartment finding services on monday.” 

“We can fight about it later,” says Arthur.

And fight they do, because Eames’s demands are exhausting. “Leave the heavy lifting to me, darling,” he says when Arthur begins to grouse about the number of places Eames has made him see. “You’ve already proven you’ll sleep anywhere.” 

“And with anyone,” Arthur adds. “My taste is really awful.” 

In the end, though, Arthur ends up keeping all his paintings. They aren’t really so bad because the third bedroom, (or, as it’s now known, Arthur’s office), has a door, and Eames can shut it so he doesn’t have to see them. Except the Matisse. That one, Eames sneaks into the last box they take out. He’s sure Arthur sees him do it, but Arthur doesn’t say anything then, or when Eames hangs it over the sink of their new place. They agreed decorating was Eames’s job, anyway, so there’s really nothing to say.

**Author's Note:**

> The actual title of this piece is: **Summer Session, or: That Time Mayor Rahm Emanuel (fuckin’ douchebag) tried to poison Arthur with E. coli**. There are a buttload of Rahm Emanuel jokes in this piece (or one joke repeated a buttload of times.) If you don’t get them, let our president explain. Still not convinced? Let Mayor Emanuel  tell you himself. (Video NSFW) 
> 
> These fics should be nonfiction, I swear. I can’t make this stuff up.
> 
> Art in this fic:  
> [Roy Lichtenstein, Bedroom at Arles.](http://www.headforart.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/02/Lichtenstein-Bedroom-at-Arles.jpg)  
> [Vincent Van Gogh, Vincent's Bedroom in Arles](http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/a/ac/VanGogh_Bedroom_Arles1.jpg)  
> [Henri Matisse, Woman on a High Stool](http://www.moma.org/collection_images/resized/064/w500h420/CRI_171064.jpg) (AKA the Matisse Eames sketched)  
> [James Whistler, Red and Pink - La Petite Mephisto](http://www.tfaoi.com/cm/2cm/2cm579.jpg) (AKA Arthur's favorite Whistler)   
> And two examples of Arthur's replicas:  
> [Frank Auerbach, Head of Jake](http://www.moma.org/collection_images/resized/198/w500h420/CRI_157198.jpg)  
> [Francis Bacon, Study of a Baboon](http://www.moma.org/collection_images/resized/989/w500h420/CRI_150989.jpg) (AKA "Arthur's ugly paintings".)


End file.
